


This Side of Paradise

by Razzaroo



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26070613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzaroo/pseuds/Razzaroo
Summary: The Circle offers few good things; Karl finds one in Anders
Relationships: Anders/Karl Thekla
Comments: 14
Kudos: 27
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	This Side of Paradise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GhostGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/gifts).



When Karl was younger, years before his magic had found him, his family had made him promises. _A good home,_ his father had said, _with strong walls_ ; Kinloch Hold fits the bill, in a way. _A good school,_ his mother had said, counting her coins; the Circle certainly meant he didn’t lack for education. _A good wife,_ his grandmother had said, and Karl had scoffed even then, because girls had never taken his fancy; the Circle had quickly put a stop to any romantic dreams that had taken root.

He hadn’t accounted for Anders, for his own foolish heartstrings tugging him to reach out to someone who looked just so sad and so lonely and so lost. He’d offered himself up as the true north to Anders’ compass. He should regret it; he does regret it; he wouldn’t change it for the world.

“We could go somewhere,” Anders says, uncharacteristically sulky, “Somewhere with sunlight and trees.” He absently turns the page in his book, “A little farm somewhere. I can show you how to do it.”

Karl takes a breath, full of the smell of ink and old pages, and looks out of the window, the only low one in the library. It’s late spring outside, he knows that much; the air would be warm and the breeze cool, both would be a relief to the stifling tower. Redcliffe’s lake shore blooms pink and white. Karl had picked this spot for some quiet, to get away from the other apprentices, but Anders has never been shy about approaching him.

“Apple blossom,” he says, gesturing at the far shore with one hand. With the other, he scratches a line into his vellum, ink smudging the side of his hand, “Come autumn, there’ll be good cider. And maybe tarts, if they’re lucky.”

“Karl!”

The buzzing behind Karl’s eyes spikes and he knows it’s Anders’ frustration bleeding into magic, which then makes its way under Karl’s skin too. He keeps Anders waiting, setting his quill down and wiping his hand on his robes.

“Where?” he asks, “Where would we go?”

At his side, Anders shrugs, “I don’t know. The Anderfels. Orlais. _Kirkwall._ Anywhere.”

Karl looks at him. He leans in close against Karl’s side, his studies temporarily forgotten, and watches the water, the way the lake laps at the land. Karl tucks some of his hair away from his face. It’s a nice thought, if naïve: the two of them and a cat and a farmstead, and no templars breathing down their necks.

“There’s nowhere we can go,” he says, and Anders huffs. Karl rolls up his sleeve, past his elbow to expose the old scar, “Nowhere they can’t find us.”

Anders lightly touches the old white mark, “They can’t chase forever.”

They can. They can and they do and Anders _knows_ this. He’s such a child, stubborn and thoughtless, so caught up dreams that he forgets how frightening the future is, the big wide expanse of unknown that bears down like a weight. Karl pulls away from him and stands, gathering his books to return them to the shelves. It can’t hurt to dream but Anders has a habit of acting on them and Karl won’t always be around to pull his feet from the fire.

“How long did you last?” he asks, “Last time, I mean.”

“Two weeks,” Anders says, “Sixteen days, if we’re being precise.”

He gets up and Karl listens to the sound of his feet, the way he follows Karl around the library, trailing him around the shelves. Hidden behind the School of Entropy shelves, Anders takes his hand, linking their fingers together; Anders’ hands had been rough once, tell-tale signs of a boy well acquainted with work, but years in the Circle have smoothed them.

“Karl,” he says, and this time it’s gentle, “We could manage. You and me. I’d make you all the apple tart and cider you could ever want.”

“We wouldn’t last a month.” Karl has visions of silver armour and swords, already feels the tug of lyrium and tastes iron in his mouth _._ “Not with the templars on our heels.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Anders says, breaking away from him, “Talking is _just_ talking. I can cope with this place.” He manages to sneak a kiss before a templar spots them, brief as breathing against Karl’s cheek. “So long as you’re still here.”

* * *

The truth is this: Karl is not a brave man. He fears the Templars and the things they do, both in the open and in the dark muffled night. He goes to every Chantry service, for faith and the fear that he isn’t as perfect as his Heavenly Maker needs him to be. When his Harrowing comes it’s with fear, that he will not be good enough, that he will fall and be lost; he swallows it down, sour as lyrium, and steels himself to be brave because Harrowings are unkind to the frightened.

The taste of lyrium still lingers in his mouth, the smell of it at the back of his throat, as the Fade builds itself around him. Karl pulls his magic close and holds it, watching as trees sprout and bloom in fast forward, their boughs drooping with the weight of fruit.

Behind him, the leaves rustle as a branch is pulled down and released again. He takes a breath and steels himself before heading towards the sound, knowing that in the real world his time is ticking away; he has no time for fear. A figure stands among the trees, plucking cherries from the branches. They turn to face him and his heart skips, jumps into his throat.

‘ _Ah,’_ he thinks, ‘ _The templars must think they’re clever.’_

The demon wears Anders’ face, a perfectly shaped copy; what gave it away was the violet in its eyes, glowing as if a candle burnt behind them. When it smiles, it’s too smooth and too symmetrical to be real.

“I thought I’d missed you,” it says. It sounds like Anders but its voice is so _unnatural,_ trembling like a pulled bowstring, crawling through Karl’s head.

It reaches for him but Karl steps back. Annoyance flickers across its face, another small thing it has gotten wrong about Anders; he often clings to Karl like roots to the earth, but he’s never begrudged a time Karl’s pulled away. Karl passes the demon, feelings its eyes on his back, to stand at the edge of the orchard. He looks out over a lake, a house on the far shore; it would be idyllic, if not for the stones dropping into the lake, ripples spreading with each one.

‘ _My countdown,’_ he thinks.

The demon sidles up next to him and, this time, Karl lets it. He can almost feel it tasting him, picking up on the magic he holds in the pit of his belly. He’s certain that this demon is his test so he’ll let it close, baits it in by letting it think it can have him in its jaws.

“We could have it,” the demon says. There’s a hand on his hip, a shadow of Anders pressed up against his side, “All of it. Just you and me.”

Karl’s thought of it, a life with Anders, together somewhere far away and building something the templars can’t touch. Winters that melt into spring and summer, year on year of solitude, living on love until the river ran dry. It’s a dream, and a sweet one, but Harrowings have no space for sweetness; Karl will not die for this.

A hand creeps up to cup his jaw, the demon moving to turn Karl’s face towards it as if to kiss him. He grasps the demon’s wrist and twists, all the magic he’d been holding on to running up and out of him. The demon’s glamour blisters away and it shrieks, the heart wrenching sound of Anders’ voice very quickly fading into something that could split skies as it folded down onto the grass. It looks up at him and snarls.

“Not with you,” Karl says as the dream crumbles around him, “I want the _real_ thing.”

* * *

Anders is deterred by nothing. As Karl moves up the tower, boosted to the golden ranks of the fully trained mages by his Harrowing, Anders follows, although he knows he shouldn’t. He treads in Karl’s footsteps and climbs up towards the sun; one day, Karl knows, he’ll reach it and finally be free. Karl knows he won’t be so lucky. The Circle is the only life he knows but the tower chokes him just as much as it shelters him.

Still, he says nothing when Anders insists on trying again and again to stay with him in the upper quarters; Karl loves him, even though he _shouldn’t_ , and indulges him. Ultimately, the templars decide that stopping Anders and escorting him back to the other apprentices is too much of an annoyance; leaving it to Karl to convince him is easier.

‘ _Let Thekla deal with him,’_ Karl imagines them thinking, ‘ _At least now he’s staying in the tower.’_

“After I have my Harrowing,” Anders says, stretching out, cat-like, across Karl’s bed, “do you think they’ll give us rooms together?”

“Doubtful,” Karl says, leaning against the wall. His room has no door and he doesn’t dare risk lying beside Anders when a templar could see them, “You’ll be by Irving, so he can keep an eye on you.”

“Your eyes would work better.” Anders pauses, “I hate the dormitory without you.”

“You have other friends.”

“Yes, _friends,_ ” Anders says and sits up, “But I can’t…” Another pause, “They’re not _you._ ” He fixes Karl with pleading eyes, “Let me stay?”

A templar passes, looking into Karl’s room as he did, and Karl waits until his footsteps have faded away before he approaches Anders. He allows Anders to hold onto him, arms looped around his waist, and carefully combs his fingers through Anders’ hair. He knows he should say no; Anders knows that he won’t.

They spend the night wedged into the same bed, so close that Anders is practically on top of Karl, his wiry limbs as strong as iron. Karl lies awake, anchored to the waking world and listening out for the sound of boots, waiting for a templar to find them.

‘ _Don’t make it a habit,’_ he thinks, though he knows that he’ll have a hard time sticking to it, that Anders will never be content with his own bed again.

* * *

To leave the Circle is a privilege. During his apprentice days, Karl had always thought it was reserved for the senior enchanters, a door unlocked only after a set amount of years. He remembers standing with a huddle of other apprentices, watching their teachers leave, wanting just one glimpse of the world outside. The templars had never let them too close to the door, and the instructors who stayed behind had always piled on extra work to compensate for what they’d missed, but it had always felt worth it just for that narrow cut of sky that could be seen before the door slammed shut again.

When Irving told Karl he’ll be leaving, accompanying a cluster of other mages to a bannorn by the lake, he hadn’t really believed it. He’s too entwined with Anders, guilty by association of all the stunts Anders has pulled, to be trusted with the privilege of venturing into the world.

He hesitates at the door, the threshold between the Circle and the rest of the world, dizzied by the wide expanse of blue sky overhead. The world is well into summer and the breeze beckons him as much as the openness repels him. He steps out but before he could go any further, there’s an outbreak of scuffling behind, boots on stone and a familiar voice.

“Karl!” Anders calls, and Karl turns to see him grinning even though he’s been stopped short by templars, “Bring me back something nice!”

Before Karl could respond, one of the templars in the escort pushed him forward and the door slammed shut behind him. He falls into line beside Wynne, reassured by her hand on his arm, and he hopes that Anders will still be there when he returns.

* * *

As close to Kinloch Hold as it is, close enough that the tower can be seen on a clear day, Rainesfere is a completely different world. The bann’s castle, as solid as Kinloch, feels completely different; while there’s apprehension about mages, dread hasn’t sunk into the stone as much as it had in the tower. Karl still can’t turn without a templar looming over his shoulder, but Bann Teagan only asks that they don’t leave his estate.

It so strange to be trusted.

His daylight hours are spent among carts destined for further afield, barley and wheat to be milled in Redcliffe, summer fruits and vegetables intended for the market in Gwaren. He weaves his spells together (this one to guard against rot; that one against pests; these to make sure they never got lost _)_ and tries not to feel out of place. In his head, he can hear Anders as clear as day: _There’s woods nearby, we could head there at night and have hours before they realise we’re gone; you’re outside of the tower, don’t you want more than **this?**_

Anders would have slipped his chain and flown by now. Karl can’t think of anywhere to go except back to him.

In his quiet hours, he takes his silver knife and wood cut from one of the bann’s apple trees, carefully working it into the shape of a cat. A mage with a knife always sets nerves on edge and the templars watch him like a hawk; it makes Karl slower, knowing even the smallest accidental cut will draw the wrong attention.

“He might not be there when you get back,” one of the templars says, “At the tower.”

Karl sets another line in the wood, carving out the shape of the cat’s leg, “He will be.”

The templar laughs, like it’s a joke only he understands. Karl focusses on his carving, wanting to ignore him; despite all of Anders’ talk, he hasn’t tried to escape in a long while, not since he’d swum the length of the lake. Still, there’s a doubt planted in the back of Karl’s head, the horrible feeling that the templars knew something he didn’t. He doesn’t _want_ to think that the reason he’d been sent to Rainesfere had nothing to do with his abilities and everything to do with separating him from Anders.

* * *

Rainesfere doesn’t last forever. As summer’s end approaches, so does Karl’s time outside of the Circle. The more senior mages will remain longer but he’s been called back by Irving, who wants him to return and start helping with the apprentices. He still feels too young, too green, but he’s four years older than Wynne had been when she’d taken her first apprentice; it will be expected of him sooner rather than later.

After months outside the Circle, with the chance to have sun on his face, the tower feels stifling. Karl stops in his room only to wash, scrubbing the outside world off his skin, and change his clothes. He runs a hand over his jaw and decides against shaving; there’s something more important he needs to see to first.

He leaves the mages’ quarters and makes his way down to the library. Already, he can pick out new faces among the apprentices, children with that wary, bewildered look he’s seen time after time. They watch him as he passes but he offers them nothing more than a glance. There’ll be enough time to learn to tell them apart later.

He finally finds Anders in the section on spirit healers, shielded from view by towering stacks of books. Anders doesn’t look up to see him until Karl is almost on top of him; when Karl moves some of the books, Anders startles but his expression quickly splits into a grin.

“You’re back!” he says, pulling Karl down to sit beside him, piling the books back up so they wouldn’t be seen. He cups Karl’s jaw, feeling the newness of his beard, “What’s this about?”

“You took priority,” Karl says. He plucks at Anders’ robe, gold now rather than apprentice blue, “And what’s this?”

“I bit my tongue and behaved myself.”

Karl presses a kiss into Anders’ hair, “I brought you something.”

He holds out the wooden cat and Anders takes it, smiling. He turns it over between his fingers as Karl wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“A very tiny Ser Pounce-a-lot,” he says, “You made this?”

Karl nods. He lets his arm slide from Anders’ shoulders to settle around his waist instead, anchoring them together. He presses his forehead against Anders’ temple.

“I worried you might not be here.”

“I only stayed because I knew you’d be coming back.” Anders says, closing his hand around the little cat. He takes hold of Karl’s free hand, gently kissing his fingertips, “And I won’t let them separate us again.”


End file.
